Blessings
by spaboolly
Summary: The war is won. His mission is finished. The Templars are vanquished. But now he finds himself lost in a world that is fragile, fragmented, empty of all he held dear. All but his courage, and the ingratiated ambition to fight for freedom.


This is a little oneshot story about Connor and his state of mind after his mission is finally done. Where do you go when your life's purpose has been served? Where do you look for answers about such an uncertain future?

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed, the characters, etc. That all belongs to Ubisoft.**

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Even as the sun set beyond the horizon to allow a cool, dark night to overtake the untamed lands upon which his home had been built, the ever-present humidity made the man's clothes cling to the sweat-slicked skin of his sturdy, well built frame. He hardly registered the discomfort. He had long ago grown accustomed to the relentless inhospitality of the wilderness into which he had been born.

But at the moment, he found it particularly difficult to care about any sensation, no matter how unpleasant. The ragged tear in his side still ached after months of recuperation, the scar a reminder that even when every demon has been put to rest, the mind will always conjure up more to be fought. When he accepted this path so many years ago, set out on a journey that his tribe had mistakenly believed was his own choice rather than an obligation to an enigmatic spirit, he had felt so many good reasons for facing the trials that came along the way. The safety of his people, the well-being of the colonists who now shared their land, the downfall of the Order that sought to control the fate of not just the New World, but the old one as well. And one other. A long buried desire that had seized him in a hold he could never fully escape the moment the old man had taken him into the hidden room of the manor to show him the portraits of their enemies, now burned to ashes.

As he knelt before the three headstones near the cliff overlooking the small inlet that led out to the vast Atlantic, he felt only numbness, emptiness, a cold sense of disappointment when he looked back on all that he had done, and what little he had to show for it.

His people were gone, moved to distant lands more removed from the expanding colonies. _Nation_, he corrected himself. No more were they an assortment of pawns to the British Crown. They had claimed their independence and now worked to establish their own sovereignty as a united country where all could be free and equal. _All who are white skinned and enjoy the privilege of owning land._ The Templar leadership had been eliminated one by one over the years, all by his hand, including Charles Lee. With his death, the Order's power had finally crumbled. What few Templars may be left in America were minor operatives who had gone into hiding and no longer posed a threat. More importantly, Lee's death had ended his lifelong pursuit of vengeance for his mother's murder.

He was unsure what he had expected to feel. Pride... joy... At the very least he had expected some sense of satisfaction. But he just felt tired. And lost.

He brushed his rough, worn fingers across the top of the headstone, hoping perhaps that even in death the memory of his mentor would somehow guide him. He missed arguing with the old man. Their most heated disagreements had bonded them just as surely as the more tender moments of teaching. He understood better now why Achilles had been tempted to abandon the order and lock himself away from the world. Their life tried even the most resilient of men, forced them to carry the burdens of both the past and the future all the way to their graves. For Achilles, this had been especially difficult, and his pupil often wondered what had led him to the Brotherhood and what he had sought to accomplish in his time.

"What use is an old man to our cause?" he had questioned once, not bothering to quell his youthful anger and naiveté. "I pursue our enemies alone while you hide in this house waiting for it to fall apart!"

"And were you still but a boy with no skills and no training, with nothing but your impulses to guide you, your 'pursuit' of our enemies would have ended long ago at the tip of a Templar's blade." He smirked at the recollection of his mentor's blunt rebuke. Though he had rarely admitted to being wrong, the young Assassin had appreciated the man's straightforward approach to imparting his wisdom.

"Without old men, the Brotherhood would cease to exist. We must continue our legacy, even if that means taking the pain of trying to make an Assassin out of a proud upstart boy who believes he is ready to take on the entire world."

Connor allowed himself a rare smile. Just as he'd hoped, his mentor had provided the insight he needed. Even if the fight seemed to be over for now, the penchant for conflict was a facet of human nature that never stayed dormant for long. If he was not to partake in the next inevitable conflict, he would ensure that those who would were ready when the time came for the Brotherhood to once again take up arms to ensure peace.


End file.
